Guilty Pleasures (9 page)

He tugged off his own clothes and got on the bed. She must have heard the clothes hitting the floor, because she finally smiled. “What, you strip and I can't even watch?” she joked.

He was proud of her, he thought. She
was
a tough woman, in any situation. “Just relax,” he breathed, easing her panties down her legs.

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered in response.

He grinned at that. Then he moved to her breasts again, teasing them with his lips and tongue. Slowly, the tension in her melted, and she began trembling and making low sounds of passion deep in her throat. He was between her legs, and she tried arching her hips to meet his erection, but he stopped her.

“See? You always want things to go at your speed,” he said, with a small laugh. “Just let me worry about it.”

“You're taking too long,” she protested.

He chuckled. “Sometimes rushing's not the answer.” He looked down at the dark thatch of hair between her legs. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

He moved down between her legs, and heard her breath hitch. He pressed suckling kisses on her thighs, knowing from their honey-dust experience just how sensitive her legs were. She moaned and jerked her body slightly. Then he traced the lips of her sex with his finger, feeling the rush of wetness as he saw her nipples grow peaked and taut. He dipped in slightly, feeling her warmth, and she raised herself against him.

He smiled, then leaned down and, parting her with his fingers, tasted her.

She let out a small cry, then breathed in low, panting breaths. “Oh,
Nick.
”

He teased her clitoris with his tongue, tasting her feminine response. He nipped at her gently with his teeth, still pressing into her with one finger in slow, sure strokes. She gasped now, and heat came off of her in waves. He started sucking on her, dipping his tongue into her, replacing his finger. He stroked the soft skin of her buttocks and thighs as his mouth moved against her, in a deep, passionate kiss.

He could feel the beginnings of her orgasm, in the wave of wetness that came off her, and in the clenching of her muscles. “Nick…Nick…” she chanted, her hips pressing against him as he continued his relentless assault. Then he felt it, as she let out a rippling cry and convulsed against his lips.

He leaned back, kissing her legs, letting her get her
bearings. “See?” He tried not to sound smug, but the look of her pale skin with the blush of sex against it was enough to make him proud…and twice as hard, if possible. “That wasn't so bad.”

“Nick,” she murmured, her body still trembling lightly. “Am I allowed to ask for something?”

“Sure,” he said.

“I want to feel your cock inside me. Deep.”

The words rocked him like a right hook. “I think I can manage that,” he finally responded in a choked voice. Hastily, he reached for his jeans, grabbing a condom out of the back pocket. He sheathed himself, then positioned himself against her again, feeling the slickness of her earlier orgasm as he slid in. He shuddered as her warmth enveloped him.

“Deep,” she sighed. “Deeper.”

He watched as she leaned back blindly against her pillows, her head lolling as she tried to lift her hips.

“Tell me if this is uncomfortable,” he said, as he took her legs and positioned them against his shoulders. The angle made him groan as she brushed against his erection, allowing him deeper access.

“No. That's good,” she breathed. “So good…”

He started moving against her, the sensation of pressing into her and withdrawing torturing them both. She was moaning against him, joining the sounds he was making as their bodies met and meshed. He pressed deeper inside her, and she moved against him, her buttocks brushing against his knees as his penis penetrated her.

“Mari,” he said, his speed picking up, his body starting to move wildly toward release.

“Nick, hurry,” she breathed, and she matched him stroke for stroke.

When his orgasm hit him, she let out a cry and he could feel her muscles clench with an orgasm of her own against his erection, causing even more sensation. He buried himself in her, moving against her spasmodically, almost blacking out with the intensity of sensations.

He put her legs back to either side of his body and collapsed against her, leaning up to kiss her sweat-soaked neck. “You are amazing,” he whispered.

“You're…pretty amazing…yourself,” she said breathlessly.

He tugged off the scarves restraining her wrists, then took off her blindfold. “Thanks,” he said, stroking her face.

“For what?”

“For letting me do that,” he said, shrugging. “For trusting me.”

She smiled, one of the sweetest smiles he'd ever seen in his life. “I do trust you, Nick,” she said in a quiet voice. “I'm just not used to leaning on anybody that way. And I guess I don't want to get used to leaning on you.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” he said, kissing her shoulder.

She looked at him. “Not yet, anyway.”

He closed his eyes.
Not yet, anyway.

He was going to leave, he realized. He wanted to
have his own restaurant, and as wonderful as Mari was, and as promising as he felt Guilty Pleasures could become, the fact remained…he swore he wouldn't be working in someone else's kitchen. When he'd been young, broke, and at the Culinary School on a scholarship, he promised himself that he'd be the most successful chef in the United States, with his own menu, his own staff, his own space. He'd come close to that until Phillip pulled the rug out from under him.

Now, he wanted Mari to trust him. He wanted to take care of her. But if he stayed to do that, what would happen to his dreams?

He realized she was kissing him, and he opened his eyes…only to find her positioning his wrists against the posts of her bed. She held the scarves, and her eyes gleamed with mischief.

“Do you trust me?” she said against his lips.

He smiled, and let her tie him up, feeling himself growing hard yet again, to his shock. “I trust you,” he said, and he meant it.

“Good,” she said, as she secured the scarves. “Because I can guarantee you're not going anywhere now.”

He closed his eyes as her mouth started to roam his body.

He wasn't going anywhere.

Not yet, anyway.

L
ATER ON IN THE WEEK
, Mari met with Lindsay at Lindsay's apartment, to talk about the restaurant's finances. She didn't want to talk about it at the restaurant, because she didn't want the crew to overhear and get nervous…and she didn't invite Lindsay to her place, because Nick was still curled up in her sheets, right where she'd left him. She hoped that the talk wouldn't take long. A quickie before the morning shift was just what her body wanted.

At least, it would hold her until that night.

Lindsay opened the door to her spacious apartment with a smile. Lindsay had made very good money as an accountant before she turned her efforts toward managing Mari's restaurant, and two restaurants her parents owned. Obviously her investments were holding up, Mari thought, letting out a low whistle. “Place looks great,” she said, sitting down on one of Lindsay's Queen Anne couches.

“Thanks,” Lindsay said absently, dropping down into a loveseat, oblivious to her surroundings. Instead, all her attention was focused on the paperwork strewn across her dark cherry wood coffee table. “The res
taurant has been doing better…but we're not quite in the clear yet.”

“That's what I love about you, Lindsay,” Mari said with a grin. “You're an incurable optimist. Is that coffee I smell?”

“Help yourself. It's in the kitchen,” Lindsay said. “You're in an awfully good mood this morning. It's the review, isn't it?”

“Sort of,” Mari hedged, smiling to herself in the kitchen. The review helped, sure…but last night's “celebration” of the review still had her in orbit.

She'd never let a man do to her all the things that Nick had done. She'd never felt about anyone the way she felt about Nick. She'd worry about the wisdom of that later.

He cared for her. And for the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt like it wasn't all on her shoulders.

She went back to Lindsay's living room, coffee in hand, grinning at the way her friend frowned over numbers. So serious, Mari thought.

She needed a “celebration” or two of her own. Mari giggled.

Lindsay looked up at her. “What, have you been drinking this morning?”

“Nothing stronger than coffee,” Mari replied. “Let's get this over with.”

Lindsay still eyed her suspiciously, but then let it ride. “All right. We're showing an upturn in finances, here,” she pointed it out on the chart she'd built up.
“But we still need to hit this level to remain solvent and actually creep out of the red and into the black.”

Mari listened, nodding as best she could. Unfortunately, two of the scarves they'd used last night were red and black, and that brought back memories…she had to suppress a sensual shudder.

“I still think entering a competition might not be a bad idea, but right now, we've got promotion going, so it might not matter….”

Mari nodded, still only half listening. She could only think of Nick, his strong hands…the way he'd pressed into her.

“And then we're going to have Santa do a strip tease on the roof.”

Mari nodded absently. Nick, still curled up in her bed…

“Mari, are you even listening to me?”

Mari responded with a blink. “I'm sorry. What?”

“I've been making up the most awful promo stuff imaginable, and you just keep nodding like one of those bobble-head dolls.” Lindsay's gaze bore into Mari's like an interrogation lamp. “All right. What gives?”

“Sorry,” Mari said. “I've been a little distracted lately. I am glad we're doing better.”

“But we're not in the clear yet,” Lindsay warned again. “You're going to have to be on the ball with this, Mari.”

Mari nodded again, solemnly. “All right. I will pay attention.”

Lindsay sighed. “Maybe you'll want to work on some specials to get rid of the excess chicken, too.”

Mari smiled at that. “Don't worry. We'll definitely be working on specials.”

Now Lindsay leaned back and studied Mari, and for a moment, Mari felt the hint of a blush climb high on her cheeks, she looked away, but when she looked back, Lindsay was frowning. “What?” she asked.

“You're sleeping with him, aren't you?” Lindsay let out a slow breath. “You're actually sleeping with Nick.”

Mari closed her eyes. “I know it's not a good idea….”

“He's your
employee.
Have you lost your mind?”

Mari shot a sharp glance at Lindsay. “Maybe I have.”

“That's how you developed your new menu, isn't it?” Lindsay stood up and paced a little bit. “Mari, you didn't just let him come up with the menu because…well, because you two were…”

Mari glared at Lindsay now. “Come on, Lindsay. You know me better than that.”

“I thought I did.” Lindsay's voice was low. “What's going on with this?”

“I don't know.” Mari hadn't really wanted to dwell on it. She'd wanted to enjoy the physical pleasure, maybe even indulge in the illusion of caring and comfort between them. But what was there, really? Was she just deluding herself?

Lindsay must have seen something on her face, because she sat down next to her. “Forget the restaurant
for a minute,” she said quietly, shifting gears from accountant to friend. “Mari, are you in love with him?”

Mari felt a little pang, deep in her chest. “I don't know,” she responded. “It's been years since I've loved anybody…or thought I loved anybody. I really don't know.”

And thinking about it scares the hell out of me.

“Mari,” Lindsay said. “I feel like crap pointing this out, but…you don't think he's going to stay, do you?”

Mari looked at her, as if slapped. Lindsay's eyes were sorrowful.

“I've seen his resumé…and I've made some discreet inquiries,” Lindsay said. “I mean, he's our sous-chef.”

“You spied on him.”

“I was thinking of you,” Lindsay said, and to her credit, she
did
look like she felt badly about the whole thing. “He's ambitious. That's not even the right word.
Obsessive
might be the better word. He was a terror. He worked at Four Seasons before Phillip Marceau had him partner with him at Le Chapeau Noir. He placed third in the Internationale Culinary Competition, right here in the city, when he was with Blackstone's. He was primed to be the next Wolfgang Puck…hell. Maybe the next Escoffier or Bocuse. And then he was accused of stealing. I can see he'd do anything to get that back.”

Mari thought about how caring he'd been last
night…the way he'd told her not to carry her worries all by herself. The way he'd let her lean on him.

“He cares about me, Lindsay.”

“I don't doubt it,” Lindsay said gently. “But I'm just trying to say…he cares about his career more, Mari. Don't forget that.”

Mari felt her heart clutch painfully.

“I won't forget,” Mari replied, the haze of euphoria from last night forgotten. “Let's go over those figures again. I want to see just how far out of the hole we are.” She nodded resolutely. “Then
I'll
make plans from there.”

 

T
HE FOLLOWING
M
ONDAY
, Nick waited at his house. Mari would be coming by later, after she finished going over the week's take and some financial plans with Lindsay. Lindsay, he noticed, had been distinctly cold to him the past week, the few times he'd run into her. Either Mari had told her what they'd been up to besides menu planning, or Lindsay had put it together for herself, but either way the message was clear…Lindsay didn't want him messing around with her best friend and business partner.

He shrugged it off. It wasn't pleasant, granted—but then, it wasn't her business, either. What he did with Mari when they weren't in the restaurant was just between him and her.

He smiled. And he was looking forward to it.

He glanced at his watch and forced himself to stay focused. Since Mari wasn't going to be coming until
later, he felt safe in inviting another guest here in the meantime. This visitor was the reason he was nervous.

There was a knock on his door, and he tried not to spring to answer it. “Hi, David,” Nick said, his voice calm and friendly. “I'm really glad you could stop by.”

David Armand stepped in, a tall, thin man in his thirties, and one of the top writers for
Saveur
magazine. He'd called Nick up out of the blue, after several of the newspaper articles on Guilty Pleasures had hit—David had done several positive pieces on Nick in the past, once when he was with Blackstone's, once with Le Chapeau Noir. He wanted to do an article on Nick's new job. Nick was hoping he'd help with getting the word out now…not only was Nick
not
embezzling or being brought up on any sort of charges, he was turning around a small restaurant.

Nick felt sure Mari would understand. It would be good publicity for the restaurant.

Of course, you haven't told her about the article, either.

“Can I offer you anything? Thirsty? Something to eat?” Nick said instead.

David shook his head. “No, I'm fine. I just wanted to get into the article, if that's okay with you.”

“That's fine with me,” Nick said, sitting in an armchair across from David's seat on the couch.

David brought out a tape recorder and a spiral notepad, going through the motions of recording Nick's acceptance of taping the session. Then the questions started.

“So…Nick Avery, former chef at Blackstone's and Le Chapeau Noir, now at a restaurant with the unlikely name of Guilty Pleasures.”

Nick grinned. “It seems strange, yes…”

“What happened?”

Nick felt his guard go up by inches. David's face was impassive, but the question…Nick shrugged it off. David had always been kind and complimentary in his writing. That was why Nick agreed to this.
Maybe it's just my defensiveness,
Nick told himself. “I enjoy working at Guilty Pleasures. It's fun, and it's also a challenge. We've come up with a really outrageous menu, and we offer a complete experience…you don't just go for the food, you go for the atmosphere, the whole nine yards.”

David jotted down a few careless notes, but his eyes seemed fixed on Nick. “So, the bad location is just one more challenge?”

Nick suppressed a wince. “I prefer to think of it as undiscovered,” he said smoothly. “Besides, people who love food don't mind the unpretentiousness of the neighborhood.”

David snorted. “Well, that's one way of putting it. And the whole sexy-menu thing?”

Nick nodded, on more solid ground now. “Food should be a sensual celebration. So should sex. What better comparison than a fabulous meal and a seduction, right?”

He thought of Mari, the taste of her, and smiled.

David seemed to note the smile. “Well. So you
don't miss doing the classical French menu, or something more traditional?”

Nick thought about it. “I've had more fun and more opportunity to be creative with this menu than I have with any other menu in years,” he said, and realized as he said it how true it was. It had started out as a lark, then a bold move made out of desperation. It was now something he was genuinely enjoying.

“So. Why did you get fired from Le Chapeau Noir?”

Nick blinked at David. “I'm sorry?”

“The whole restaurant community knows that you got fired from Chapeau in a cloud of scandal,” David said, his tone never changing. “What is your response to that?”

Nick stared for a second, feeling an icy fist clench in his stomach.

“That's what this is all about, isn't it?” Nick said in a low voice. “You don't care about Guilty Pleasures. You want to find out what the hell happened at Chapeau.”

To his credit, David finally looked a little uncomfortable. “That's where the real story is, Nick,” he said, as if pleading. “I've been doing puff pieces on famous chefs for years. They're making budget cuts at the magazine. If I don't come up with something really breaking, they're going to cut
me.
”

“And that's my problem?” Nick said coldly. “You want me to come up with dirt for you to publish?”

“Everybody wants to know what happened,” David said persuasively. “Phillip Marceau isn't talking,
but that's because his lawyers and that bulldog father of his won't let him. You, on the other hand…nobody's approached you because you disappeared. Next thing I see, you're in some hole-in-the-wall in the Mission District, with a raunchy menu and a no-star rating. What happened to drive the mighty Nick Avery to this?
That's
a story!”

Nick stood up, clicking off the tape recorder. “I think this interview is over.”

“But you could tell
your
side of the story,” David continued. “Don't you want that? Nobody's ever gone up against the Marceaus. That could be a hell of a coup!”

Nick thought about it. “Sure, I could bad-mouth Phillip…but then those lawyers you've mentioned would be after
me,
right? And besides, I've put it behind me.” That was a lie, he realized, but he moved doggedly onward. “The most important thing in my life right now is Guilty Pleasures, and the work I'm doing there.”

“You've got to be kidding me,” David groaned, picking up the recorder and shoving it in his pocket. “Come on. I remember the last interview I did with you. You were ready to light the world on fire with a blowtorch. Now I'm supposed to believe that Nick Avery's gone
soft?
”

Nick could picture himself planting a punch right on the tall man's jaw.
Gone soft, my ass, pal.
But what would that accomplish? He'd get put in jail, and David would
really
have a story to write about. Nick just walked to the door, opening it. “Just get out.”